


With Time

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-13
Updated: 2008-02-13
Packaged: 2019-01-19 17:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12414849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Oneshot. "Wrong memories of pain, fear, stupid, repugnant hatred–those are the memories that will unravel you, make you go mad with time."





	With Time

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

  
Memories are a powerful thing, you think. They have he ability to keep you sane—give you some ability to retain your humanity. Yet, they have the ability of undoing you—of driving you mad, if you're left to dwell too long on the wrong memories. Wrong memories of pain, fear, stupid, repugnant hatred—those are the memories that will unravel you, make you go mad with time.

  _With time._  

 To you, time is no longer a concept—it simply doesn't exist anymore. A part of you thinks that time never was a real, tangible concept. A part of you thinks that you were already mad—and that's why time inside Azkaban didn't make you insane. It simply enhanced your already-present insanity.

 Azkaban couldn't take away happy memories from you. Your happy memories were so different, so warped, so down right wrong, that the Dementors couldn't suck them out of you. Your fondest memories—they were so blatantly insane—there was no way you could be driven mad by the Dementors. You think, slowly, carefully, attempting to find memories that wouldn't be classified as mad—two people's faces come slowly, softly to mind. Both of them your sisters, both of them your blood.

 You tried to focus on what the three of you would do in your childhood. You know there is something there—something dealing with you, Andromeda, and Narcissa being inseparable. You vaguely know that you used to love them—at least you feel as if you ought to...You can't for the life of you though, recall anything that you used to do  with one another. All that comes to mind, all that you can think of is Andromeda's betrayal.

 She had been your confident...your best friend. Andromeda had been the only thing that kept you rooted into reality for such a long time. And then you had discovered her lies. The filthy blood traitor. You hoped she and her stupid mudblood husband died. You prayed that their wretched creature of a daughter was murdered. You hoped you could be the one to do it. You hoped with your whole heart and soul that maybe, just maybe, your once-beloved sister would wake up—realize that she wasn't supposed to be with those mudbloods.

 Letting out a garbled scream, you suddenly banged your fists hard against the cold concrete of your cell. You can feel warm blood trickling from the sides of your palms and down your arms. You watch as the crimson seeps down your arms in slow, lazy rivulets.

 It stings—and the stinging is a welcome physical relief from the memories of what once was. The stinging relief, the physical pain almost shocks you. You had no longer thought yourself human. You had fancied yourself infallible—indestructible. You suddenly aren't sure what possesses you to do it again. Only you are. You're banging your hands so hard up against the concrete, hoping that it will hurt you more—force you to bleed more—force you to be reminded of the you that was, not the you that is. You hope to god, that it will make you, you again with time.

With time. Such a superfluous idea.

 You do it until you hear the harsh, husky voice of your cousin, sounding from the stall across from you. “Bellatrix stop it.”

 Surprisingly you do stop—stop as if you had only just registered that Sirius was in Azkaban as well. You take your cousin in. He has only been in here just one moth longer than you, and yet he looks as if he has spent a lifetime in that cell. His once lilting grey eyes stare blandly at you. There is none of the intensity in them, none of the fire that they once had. His face is pale, his whole body is slumped apathetically on the floor, his head resting against the concrete. The only thing he seems to be doing is watching you.

 You glare at Sirius, for once you can feel a small fire, a small fire of hatred welling inside of you. (But at least it's something other than fear.)The hatred you feel for Sirius is ridiculous. To you it feels as if it is simply now the prolonged, end result of a childhood grudge—a grudge that had began when he was eleven years old and you twenty. “You don't deserve the attention they're giving you. You don't deserve the honor of being called one of his supporters.” You spit it out, your voice sounds foreign and hoarse. You haven't spoken in such a long time.

 You watch him closely, knowing that he should react with some instead he simply sits. Those damned eyes of his simply staring—they were like lanterns they were so bright. You feel impure simply having him look at you. You dig your fingernails into the palms of your hands to stop from feeling so dirty.

 It is after a long pause that Sirius manages to choke out an angry response, “Oh, and where is the honor in what I've been accused of? Huh? Please enlighten me, Bella.” It isn't anything he says that particularly shocks you—however the use of your childhood nickname unnerves you to almost no end. Bella was what Cissy called you...it was what Reggie and Andy had called you when you were all young. But Sirius never did call you that. His fear of you, his dislike of you had always been apparent as he always called you Bellatrix.

 You're shocked at your ability to keep calm here. You had never been one for calmness, your actions and words had always been brash and sharp. Yet, here you are, jutting your chin out stubbornly, pridefully, you're inadvertently moving closer to the other convict, your hands grappling at their bars. “They...the wizarding world. They say you killed the Potters. I know you didn't though. I know you couldn't. You were always too much of a coward to do anything noble—always hanging around with those liberal mudblood lovers—with mudbloods themselves. And you aren't deserving of that notoriety, of that infamy.”

 His eyes don't change. They stay fixated on you, for a moment, you think you see a glimpse of the old Sirius—the hotheaded, brash young man he used to be. You think you imagined it. You're  shocked when you hear him admit, unflinchingly, coldly, simply, “You're right.”

 You open your mouth to say something—something in response to his simple answer—you hadn't spoken in so long, that you had forgotten just how much you missed speaking, missed letting your mind be heard. But you were silenced when the guards came to take Sirius away for some reason or another. You wanted so badly to hurt your cousin, torture him, make him realize that at the end of the day—only blood matters. Only Voldemort's cause matters. You couldn't though. Time had run out on you.

 You were left alone again. Falling away from the bars of your cell, you pulled your knees up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them tightly, hugging them to you. You needed to think of something besides family—besides the treacherous filth the Black family's final generation had been reduced to, it hurt to much to think of it. You hoped that with time, some other feeling would come to other than shame.

 You tried to think of memories that were warped—memories that weren't quite happy, but not something that hurt quite as bad as the ones you had been thinking about. Nothing came to your mind. It was excruciating—it was painful—it was slow and it was eating you away. Having Sirius in such close proximity to you was doing nothing to help it either. You feel as if your mind has been placed under the Cruciatus curse you're in so much mental agony.

 You can't help but wonder how long you've been inside Azkaban, because then you'll know just how much closer you are to dying. You want to ask. But you don't. You know—that here, time will eventually end. Time always fades away into nothingness. There is no such concept as time in Azkaban. The only thing that is real within this godforsaken place are memories—the sort of memories that force you off the unstable edge of reason—if there is enough time.

 


End file.
